


A Happy Ending

by littlepurinsesu



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, F/M, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 05:56:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14349333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlepurinsesu/pseuds/littlepurinsesu
Summary: ‘But what do you want? What is the story that you wish for? Stop thinking only about granting happy endings to others and start thinking about yourself for once. Spin your own story. Create your own world. Write your happy ending.’





	A Happy Ending

**Author's Note:**

> My re-entry into the world of fanfiction after many, many years. And I'm only posting it now.
> 
> I'd stopped writing for pleasure during the final years of high school and somehow never came back to it again... until I finished watching Princess Tutu. This anime inspired me to pick up my pen again (more like place my fingers on the keyboard again) after so many years of neglecting one of my biggest hobbies.  
> I wouldn't say I'm entirely happy with how this story turned out, but it's an important one to me as it marks my first piece of creative writing for myself after being drowned in academic writing for so long. Would I have written some parts differently or done things another way if I approached this now? Probably. But I have no intention of changing anything, and will just let this little piece rest here with my collection of new fanfics. As a record of how my writing was when I rediscovered my long-lost passion, if you may.
> 
> I'd thought this fic would never see the light of day, but here it is, in all its rusty glory. A reminder to myself that I came to read, but I stayed to write.

Once upon a time, there was a man who began writing a story.

The man granted happy ending upon happy ending, crafting a world in which all characters could live life as they desired. And when he immersed himself in his bouts of creative labour, she never strayed from his line of vision. The single feather standing upright atop her head and the tiny flutter of her wings were constants in his life that reminded him of why he wrote.

He wrote because of _her_. She was his muse.

The man had moved on from his inability to spin stories that were not _about_ her, but he held dearly to the loving hope that had emitted from her tiny body the day he had written Drosselmeyer’s story out of its predestined tragic ending. Since that day, he had tucked the feeling of that warm light safely within the depths of his heart, and turned to it for guidance during those dark times when his quill would hover above his parchment, lost and doubtful. The man would have been content to write story after story about the gentle affection he felt whenever she smiled, or the burning desire in his chest whenever he looked into her eyes, but he had a duty to lead the townspeople to the happy endings they yearned for.

He never forgot the decision he made when he tore apart Drosselmeyer’s mechanism, the very device that gave birth to the tragedy that the twisted man so loved. Reducing the godly contraption to nothing but a cluttered pile of gears and wiring, he had vowed to take it upon himself to write the rest of the story by his own hand and give people the wings they needed to live as freely as they pleased.

But when he tried to write of prosperous villages and harmonious townsfolk, his hand would sometimes stray. And before he realised, the ink spilling from the tip of his quill would begin to engrave words evoking the images that would seep into his mind when he allowed it to wander. The playful flick of her hair, the subtle upward curve of her lips, and the bright sparkle that illuminated her eyes. The way her voice would crack a little when she became visibly excited, and the way she landed in a pile of jumbled limbs whenever she tried to move faster than her petite body could carry her. The soothing warmth of her chest pressed against his, the very first time he had written a story about her, called out her name, and caught her in his arms. And the tiny vibrations her body would make whenever she groomed her silky feathers, nestled comfortably in his lap, her tiny frame fitting so easily as if the place were made for her and her only.

These musings had no plot—there was no beginning, no middle, and no end. Only a stream of disconnected memories that he kept locked away in the deepest crevices of his mind. And when the fear of exposure dawned upon him, the man would tear the page out and shred it to pieces.

He was the writer, the spinner of stories, and the incoherent digressions of his heart were only a hindrance—no, a _shame_ —to his duty.

Autor had often complained begrudgingly over the basket of stale bread and bottled milk he brought during his visits. The bespectacled Drosselmeyer enthusiast kept the man from forgetting to eat and sleep, perhaps taking this chance to indirectly exercise some authority over the gift he had missed out on. It was probably more out of a futile attempt at feigning importance in the grand scheme of things (‘Seriously, how would the world go on if I wasn’t here to keep you from starving yourself?’), but the man didn’t mind. Autor was not without his wisdom, and sometimes, he would share this with him in his usual condescending tone.

‘You’ve created a hopeful new world with your powers. You’ve created happy endings for countless people. You’ve created life, but life itself is draining out of your very own soul.’

The man hadn’t bothered to protest; Autor meant well, and was probably right. The prince he had sworn to protect had returned to his story with Rue, Princess Tutu’s mission had ended and she had ceased to appear again in this world. A knight who had long since cast away his sword in favour of his quill now pledged his service to the people of the town. There was no longer an epic crisis which required his hand to bring about salvation, so his duty now was to make sure that the people continued to freely live the happy endings they desired and deserved. And if writing happy endings could give people what they wished for, then the man was willing to devote himself to write for as long as he could.

‘But what do _you_ want?’ Autor had blurted out in exasperation during one of his last visits. ‘What is the story that _you_ wish for?’

‘A story… that I wish for?’

‘Yes. Stop thinking only about granting happy endings to others and start thinking about yourself for once. Spin your own story. Create your own world. Write _your_ happy ending.’

He thought of a tiny bundle of velvety yellow feathers, warm under his touch and quivering with life. Of a clumsy figure bursting with vigour as she bounded from one place to the next, her candid laughter echoing in her wake. Of an elegant dancer, whose every movement spoke of grace, and whose every leap seemed to bring her closer to the glory of the heavens above.

Of _her_.

And so the man began to write. There would be a beginning when she would resume the guise of a human girl, a middle when they would find each other again, and an ending when…

His quill stopped mid-sentence, ink pooling and seeping into the extra pages beneath.

He tore the piece of parchment from the pile. It had nothing but a vague and disoriented sequence of events and empty descriptions of a world he could not have—futile attempts at allowing himself a happy ending, and they brought him embarrassment at his own selfishness. After all, what kind of closure could he possibly craft for the two of them, when he had thrown away that dream on the day he decided to forbid himself from writing the happy ending he secretly craved?

Perhaps Drosselmeyer’s ghost had heard his thoughts, or maybe some other godly figure of authority with a more skillful set of hands than he, as a gust of wind promptly snatched the page from his hand before he could destroy it. The man grabbed blindly at the air, feet tangling and eyes fixed ahead of him as he watched the parchment land on the surface of the tranquil lake. Water seeped through the parchment, the blurred contours of his senseless imagination mocking him. Air and then water met the soles of his shoe as he unwittingly stepped straight through the surface of the glassy mirror in his blind fumbling, landing with an unceremonious _splash_. He thought he caught a quick glimpse of blurred yellow and two orbs of crystalline blue turning in his direction before his vision was completely clouded.

The water was frigid, chilling him to the bone as he sank deeper into its shadowy depths. Funny, the lake had seemed almost shimmery and translucent from the safety of his little wooden platform, yet now all he could see were foggy distortions of light and shade. It was pointless to try and retrieve that piece of parchment now. The water had already claimed the ink as its own, and he was left with nothing but the fond visions and memories of her, flapping, changing, swimming…

He searched the haze above for two webbed feet, those that paddled beside him when he wrote by the lake, their soft swishing sound the most comforting music a writer could ask for. But there was mostly just grey, quite a bit of black, an occasional patch of blue where the sunlight could still reach, and there was… white. Somewhere in the distance above him, a glimmering smear of white. Its light was bright enough to make him close his eyes, but it was welcoming, almost beckoning him to reach out and wrap his fingers around it. He extended his hand blindly and caught it in his palm.

The light was as warm as he imagined, yet somehow more firm than he was expecting. There was a gentle tug, followed by a more sturdy pull, and the man opened his eyes to meet a pure white tutu and strawberry blond hair, and eyes as blue as the frosty water around him, but warm enough to tingle in his soul and enliven his senses.

He would have gasped, or even pulled back. But then again, this had to be a dream—a hallucination of his, right? Her pendant—the last heart shard—had been given back to Mytho, who had returned to the world of his own story. She had no necklace now, and the enchanted ballerina looked almost strange without her usual accessory resting against the skin of her chest.

Come to think of it, why wasn’t he thrashing about and struggling for air? It must have been an illusion after all, the final moments when a person’s life flashed before his eyes. The man was staring his death in the face, and his death was absolutely breathtaking. If this was but a mere fantasy, he would be content to die if that meant he could relive these final moments as the happy ending he had once only dared to dream of.

‘Please, won’t you dance with me?’

She never opened her mouth, but her eyes spoke her signature words with the way they softened at the edges, just like the way they did each time she would charm a shard of the prince’s heart into a pas de deux of love and hope.

Right, they had danced together like this before, submerged in the depths of water. It had been in the Lake of Despair, he remembered now, when Drosselmeyer had made his forceful attempt at thrusting his ideal tragedy upon them through the man’s unwilling hands. That time, he had lifted her, spun her round and round, cradled her in his arms, and dipped her into a split. He had looked intently into her eyes and held her gaze tenderly as he assured her that he would stay by her side forever. He had been prepared for the end, and this here was yet another end. Their end. No, _his_ end.

Were their dances always destined to take place when the end was in sight?

But this time was different, wasn’t it? How could he possibly be drowning in despair when he was feeling such warmth rising in his chest, when the figure holding his hand was smiling so lovingly at him? Could he truly say that he was falling into darkness when his heart soared with joy at each movement, each step of the pas de deux they were engaged in now?

Light began to seep into his vision, brightening his surroundings. If dying meant that his ascension to Heaven would be guided by the presence at his side, he would happily welcome death. Maybe he could finally allow himself to be just a little bit selfish, as Autor had indignantly advised, and drown himself in _his_ world. The world _he_ wished for. Yes, this was his happy ending, he decided, as the ballerina lifted his arm and brought him into the blinding light.

He wanted to call out to her, to ask where she would go, to ask if he could ever see her again after this dance ended. But when he opened his mouth, he could only let out a cough, then a splutter, and then he was gasping for oxygen, his back pressed against the warm wood and his head almost touching the leg of the chair he had been sitting on… some time ago. Time had seemed to flow in slow motion, and he had lost all track of it during the timeless moment in which he had encountered the world he wished for, danced with his dream, and held his happy ending in his arms.

‘Fakir!’

When he finally lifted himself onto his elbows and took in the sight of her—wet hair plastered down the side of her face, droplets trickling down her naked body, eyes shining with love and hope—he knew that this was not his happy ending after all. She leapt, arms extended and face split into a wide and toothy grin. And as she landed in his embrace, he understood.

This was only the beginning, and they had an entire future ahead of them to live out as many happy endings as they wished.

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on [Tumblr](http://littlepurinsesu.tumblr.com/post/173066352901/a-happy-ending).


End file.
